


Someone to Love Me

by trascendenza



Category: Invisible Man
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Personal Favorite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-23
Updated: 2007-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-04 01:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Lunch, sir?" Eberts asked, just as the clock on the wall turned from 11:59am over to 12:00pm.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone to Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't resist this claim, because Eberts=love. Written for smallfandomfest, prompt: chicken and sausages and someone to love him. Occurs around 2x05, Going Postal.

"Lunch, sir?" Eberts asked, just as the clock on the wall turned from 11:59am over to 12:00pm.

The Official looked up from his paperwork and grunted. He handed over a twenty-dollar bill without even a murmur of protest (Bobby probably would have killed Eberts on the spot from jealousy if he'd been present). "Don't spend it all in one place," he added, off-handedly.

"Yes, sir."

Eberts spent exactly $17.95 on a large tuna sandwich on rye (no mayonnaise, because the chief had to watch his cholesterol), a large coffee (de-caffeinated because Eberts worried about the late nights the chief spent poring over the books), a large bag of chips (a few of which, he knew, would go into the sandwich to add some extra "zest," as Eberts secretly thought of it, and the rest would be saved for a snack at 4:45pm to tide the chief over on his ride home), and Jennifer Crusie's latest paperback _Don't Look Down_, co-written with Bob Mayer: the summary on the back provided just enough of a tantalizing promise of romance and mystery that Eberts was hopeful it would suffice to keep the chief occupied in the interim of their most distressing lack of cable (due to an unfortunate lack of funding to pay the bill).

The remaining $2.05 he spent on a small container of chicken wings, for himself. He wouldn't have, but The Official had been most displeased when Eberts had fainted at work last week because, in his overwhelming excitement over the Official's return to the job and ousting of the interloper Luke Lawson, Eberts had somehow neglected to eat for a few days. He had to ensure that no such dereliction of duty would occur again.

And he did like chicken.

*

It was a beautiful day. Big, puffy clouds strewn across an almost boastfully blue sky, birds singing in the distance, the grass and flowers swaying gently in the breeze.

"Humph," The Official grunted, sitting at the picnic table and looking out over the park. "This was the best place you could find?"

"The best, sir," Eberts said, dabbing more sunscreen on his nose. "Well, the best available within our limited price range, sir."

"Tell me again why we had to have this company picnic?"

"Studies have shown—"

"Shut up."

"Yes, sir." Eberts slathered more sunscreen on his nose. He wouldn't tell anyone this, but he feared freckles almost as much as he did skin cancer.

The Official squinted at the sun, as if he could dim it by the power of his glare alone. "Are those coals ready?"

Eberts scrambled up, carefully leaning over the barbecue that was giving off heat in air-distorting waves.

"Affirmative, sir."

The Official ponderously rose from the bench.

"Let's get the kielbasas roasting."

"Agent Fawkes and Agent Hobbes won't be here for approximately another thirty minutes, sir, so, while cooked, the kielbasa may be lukewarm by the time they arrive—"

The Official smirked. "We'll just have to make sure and eat them while they're hot then, eh, Eberts?"

Eberts swallowed when The Official winked at him.

*

He was apprehended with a mail bag over the head. Even half-crazy, he knew there was no glory to be had in being brought down by an invisible agent using a mail bag. Fawkes could have at least quicksilvered it.

If he put his considerable mental powers to it, he might be able to recall a situation he'd been in that was _less_ embarrassing and wholly emasculating than this, but the lack of air coming through the potato sack-like fabric—and Agent Fawkes sitting on him—was making it difficult to focus on anything.

Well, that, and the stream of sailor-worthy obscenities coming out of his mouth. It was fascinating, because on the one hand, he understood that he wasn't acting normal. More than understood. But on the other, he just didn't fucking care. He couldn't seem to fucking care about anything, and God, it was nice.

_Except…_

"The Official's gonna get a real kick outta this," Fawkes laughed, giving him a hearty pat on the back and cutting off Eberts's very unflattering description of his mother mid-stream.

_…for that._

*

"So you went crazy," The Official greeted him the next morning, his eyebrows raised.

"Well, while crude, sir, 'crazy' could be considered a relatively accurate term for the temporarily-induced paranoia and hallucinations I underwent while under the influence of the psychotropic compound—"

"Crazy," The Official cut him off, getting up from his chair.

Eberts, looking down, nodded.

He looked up again at the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't scare us like that again."

"Sir, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for my actions—"

"Save it, Eberts. Just make sure it doesn't happen again."

Eberts nodded. "You have my word on it, sir."

The Official hadn't removed his hand. He narrowed his eyes in a way Eberts didn't recognize—the only instance he could recall when The Official had used a similar expression was when a bouquet of brilliant roses had been accidentally delivered to this office. Appraising, with a hint of… approval? Surely not.

But then there was a hand on his other shoulder, and he didn't even have any air to swallow this time.

"Call me Charlie, Eb—"

The Official—Charlie—paused, looking for a brief flash like something was caught in his throat. Eberts's fists got clammy at the idea that he might have to perform the Heimlich, but then Charlie steeled his jaw, clearing his throat. "Call me Charlie, Albert."

Albert had the same not-caring feeling he'd had back in the Post Office, but this time it bloomed warm in his chest, scrambling his mind in a pleasant way. He knew he was grinning like an idiot and just… didn't care.

"Okay," he said, breathless.

Charlie, shifted, dropping and extending a hand so that they could shake on it.

"Only when we're alone, of course."

Albert shook.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Charlie."


End file.
